The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (10 page)

“Jenny Williams. From your bookings department.”

“Oh. Well then. Good on ya. Hope you enjoy.”

I realized after Mr. Knight left how often he had said “well then” in my apartment, not a term he had used all week giving orders on the phone or deftly heading up business meetings. Also, there had been a distinct change in Mr. Knight’s face from when he asked who I was going to a movie with to when I informed him it was Jenny—though I could not for the life of me describe it. I sighed, frustrated as I could not be sure whether he was concerned about the gender of my new friend. I was also frustrated that Sullivan Blaise had put me in a position where I had to question my employer’s intentions when clearly they were perfectly decent. Kindness was all he had ever shown me.

As for his tire-iron-hard penis and my throbbing vagina, I brooded on that and decided it had been nothing more than an inevitable, mutual, biological reaction, a result of our proximity, touch, and near nudity.
Any
nearly-naked male and female rubbing up against each other in warm water would have garnered the same result. It was a law of nature. Furthermore, neither of us had acted on the impulse.

Reassured, I and Miss Moneypenny had lunch, then napped to build up depleted energy stores.

When I woke up, I found myself in a heady state of sexual arousal. I began to masturbate, as I usually do, focusing on the physical sensations, manipulating my clitoris with the routine pattern. Slowly I felt myself decompress. The experience is rather like undressing, only I am shedding my acute awareness of the framework of reality. The room I am in, why I am in it, what I intend to do next. Instead, I pick up the scent in the air, the sheets gently scraping my erect nipples, my heavy breasts, the pressure building down under, how wet I grow, the urgent longing for touch, hands probing, grasping, a tongue flicking, what it might be like to have someone else control . . . everything, to provide pleasure, so I don’t have to, the tingling, the heat, the euphoric pleasure building, sheer, exquisite pleasure, so unlike every other human experience and—

I burst into an intense orgasm which shook me harder than I have ever shook, for I lolled back, eyes half-closed, moaning out loud . . . visualizing Mr. Knight above me, his tire-iron cock moving in and out of me, filling me so tight I might burst, releasing me, filling me, again and again and again. I felt my walls clench around the finger I had inserted, and, as I descended back into reality, resented the poor substitute.

After a moment of breathless repose, my cheeks filled with blood-red shame.

How could I?

Should one account for one’s pornographic thoughts? How does one even? I threw back the sheets, disgusted with myself, and headed to the bathroom off the hallway for a quick shower . . . aching, throbbing still, with unrelieved erotic impulse . . . perhaps, perhaps because I had not been
properly
plundered.

It was perfectly normal to need to have sex, I reassured myself, as hot water sprayed down on me. There was nothing wrong with me.

Stepping out of the shower a few minutes later, I felt as relaxed as pudding, yet unsatisfied, like a reluctant vegetarian. (I had tried going meatless for one week in my teens, hoping to save money on our grocery bill.) And even though I knew my urges were not wrong, I continued to admonish myself for indulging in such scandalous thoughts about Mr. Knight. Moreover, I could not bring myself to even contemplate discussing this development with B, which made me realize the thoughts I was having about Mr. Knight were indeed wrong.

Frowning, I dressed and headed out using public transit to north Sydney, where I had located a boutique stationery store. Perhaps to compensate for my indecent thoughts, I overspent on new origami supplies. I was delighted at the vast selection of papers, which, upon returning home, I set about folding to the soulful harmonies of Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears. I finally lost myself, and my dirty desires, in what I was working on: a recreation of the Sydney Opera House.

Origami is my obsession. It is not just the excitement of developing the mathematical foundation of a new complex structure, of course. There is the experimentation with the angles, working through cruxes, unfolding, folding, until I create a proper representation.

It is not unlike (as my mother once pointed out, rather astutely, I thought) life’s mysteries. Of course, everyone knows paper folds can be used to solve geometric problems that mathematics cannot . . . only for me there is a rare opportunity to express creativity, I suppose, to find my way to a perfectly sculpted, uniquely personal outcome, which I can look upon with pride.

It was ten p.m. before I realized my back was aching. Partially completed renditions were scattered about the floor, and the music had long since stopped playing. I took my latest piece with me to bed—it was the best one yet—and fell asleep working on it.

I am an extremely heavy sleeper, so it must have been a rather loud thump that awoke me, followed by a distinctive crunch. At first I thought Miss Moneypenny had been playing with my origami creations. (I try to disabuse her of this activity, but she confuses my disciplinary efforts as a game and it is hard to deny her her whimsy.) However, despite my groggy state, the awful sensation of drowning underwater . . . I couldn’t suck in air as a hand was clamped over my mouth. A hand! I opened my eyes but it was pitch black. My body seized with tension, and struggled to no avail.

“Shh, it’s me,” a man whispered. My brain went back to Monday, the voice, the pungent cologne. “Sullivan.”

I clasped his hand and willed my heart, head and fists into a calm state. Anger did not begin to touch on the extent of emotions I was experiencing. He finally lifted his hand off of my mouth. “Sorry, Charlie, didn’t know how startled you’d be.”

“Very,” I hissed between my teeth. “Get away!”

After a moment, perhaps taken aback by my tone, he moved away from the side of the bed. I sat up quickly and turned on the bedside light, clutching the sheet close to me. There, standing at the end of my bed, was the towering Sullivan Blaise, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, his bright blue eyes soaking me up. Not a speck of sorry-ness on that mug. He had just finished closing the blinds I had left open because I like the city’s lights on me as I sleep.

“What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, right. I couldn’t come in the day. He’s put eyes on you.”

I glared at him. “You broke into my apartment.”

“Well, yeah. Like I said—”

“What are you doing here?!” My voice was exceedingly shrill, just like the high-pitched siren going off in my mind. I clutched my head. I was jumbled.
I needed him gone
. I needed this not to be occurring, at—I glanced at my nightstand clock—three in the morning.

Or anytime. Ever.

“Easy there, Charlie.”

“Leave!”

“Don’t get off your bike now . . .”

The strangest thing popped into my mind in that moment. My mother’s afghan. I literally saw it, out of nowhere, in that moment. In fact, it was all I could see. All my life it had rested on the back of our sofa, with its harmless, cheerful black, pink, orange and lime-green crocheted diamonds.

When sorting through our belongings in preparation for my trip, it had seemed just too big, and therefore, I reasoned, it would be unreasonable to bring it with me on such a long journey. And so I had had it removed from the trailer along with other belongings I had boxed up for various charities that did home pick-ups. Until this moment, I had forgotten about it. Now I could even remember the burly man who lifted up that specific box, commenting, “Oh, thank Christ, a light one.”

That familiar textile, its vibrancy, the way it felt on my skin, left the trailer and
my life forever
in that stranger’s hands. And I simply watched it go.

How could I have disposed of it? How could I not have known the meaning it held for me . . . until now? My eyes blurred and my grip on all that I understood, and by that I mean, all that I could understand, slipped a little. I had lost something, something grave. Panicked, I shuddered with horror and revulsion at my own self-inflicted callousness. For that is what it was. The sheer magnitude of what I had done—how would I ever feel right in the universe again without that afghan?—hit me. How could I hurt myself in that way?!

I heard a gasp, and remembered I was not alone. How could I forget? I had lost myself inwardly!

I covered my face to stifle the fluid and sounds that had been openly pouring out of me.

I heard Sullivan saying, “Ay, ay, no drama, sweetheart! I’m sorry to scare you, but I had no choice and we agreed that . . .”

When I uncovered my face, I was assaulted by yet another example of his audacious presumption. He was sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to console me, prattling on and on and on. My muscles were rigid, perhaps from outrage.

“What are you doing here?” I asked sternly, determination pushing aside the putrid
puke-green
emotion I had been slipping around on.

Start with the most important question even if you dread the answer.

“I’m checking in,” he said. “Look, are you alright?”

I glanced at him, uncertain how to answer, other than the obvious, “No, of course I’m not alright,” when I saw his brow furrow. “He hurt ya?” Sullivan’s tone was laced with some kind of emotion that gave me great unease.

I pulled back. He meant Mr. Knight.
Everyone does think him a villain
. It is so unfair. “No. He’s been a perfect boss and a perfect gentleman, if that is what you mean.”

Sullivan pulled back. “Perfect? Then what are you getting shirty for?”

My mouth flapped open.

“You broke into my apartment. Did you forget to turn your brain on today?” I was not out of line inquiring about his low IQ. Politeness was not warranted.

His face had bunched up at my rudeness. “I’ll let that pass. Anyway, next time I won’t have to. See, I’ve taken a snap of your key, so I’ll have my own.” He held up his phone. To my horror, there were indeed several photographs of my key taken at different angles. “The boys’ll make me one tomorrow on the down low. This is the only safe way for us to meet, trust me. Like I said, he’s having you watched.”

In that moment, staring at Sullivan Blaise, I wanted desperately to erase him from existence, like I had that afghan. But he was like the black ink they use to take your fingerprints. Try as I may, I could never get it out of the crevices of my mother’s fingers. Only time wore out the stain.

Wait. Wait a minute. My stomach churned with fear. Earlier, Sullivan had implied Mr. Knight was having me watched. My mind was not functioning at optimal capacity.

“Did you mean Mr. Knight, has he, you mean, he has someone following me? Why?” I whispered, glaring up at him, biting my lip raw. This was his fault.

“Yeah, a new recruit. Don’t worry, he’s not pegged you as dodgy yet,” said Sullivan, resting his hand on my leg over the sheet. “If he had, he’d have put a more experienced bloke on you. He’s likely keeping tabs, that’s all.” Sullivan’s blue eyes stabbed me then in a rather penetrating manner, his hand remaining on my leg. “He’s never done that before, not with other offsiders or even with his current sluzza.”

“
Sluzza
?”

“Yeah, his piece. High class. A solicitor.”

“His piece,” I murmured.

Sullivan pursed his lips.

“Bird, Charlie. Cunnole.”

“I get it!” I admonished him. He is so crude!

Mr. Knight had a lover. Well, of course he would.

I should have a lover, too, I brooded rather suddenly and intensely before catching the emotion, identifying it, and attempting to dispose of it. However, it was sticky like jam. B’s words thrust into my mind—I should be “getting some.”

“Charlie, hey?” He whistled. “You with me?” I glanced at Sullivan.

“I am fine. As you can see. You have checked in. Now you can leave.”

“Yeah, not so fast. Let’s hear about his week.” He relaxed, leaning back a bit.

I pursed my lips and crossed my arms over my chest.

I simply could not abide Sullivan’s self-satisfaction. And that is when a thought occurred to me, rather mysteriously in that moment—an excellent way to free myself and Mr. Knight from this terrible situation.

I could get myself fired
.

Who could blame me then?

How could I not have thought of it before? Perhaps, because I had not been placed under actual duress.

Yes. That was the way. Of course I would have to find another job and a place to live after all. But it was worth it, at this stage. This Sullivan was a reckless, dangerous brute. Moreover, in addition to fearing for my safety and future security, I did not care to be a part of the downfall of Mr. Knight.

Over the past week I had arrived at the only conclusion possible: while Mr. Knight’s past may not have been admirable, he was striving to be a law-abiding citizen. The only time he ever closed the door was when Mr. Carlisle or Mr. Bennett were present or on the phone. And I knew when they called because he would take them off speaker phone right away. I did not eavesdrop, but for my own peace of mind, I was glad to have overheard parts of the conversation when Mr. Knight raised his voice, and it was clear Mr. Knight was acting strictly in an advisory role. I even heard him express impatience that they would still both need to be calling him for such trivial matters.

Yes. This could not go on, as is. I stamped down my own self-satisfaction at knowing I did indeed have a way out. I just needed to identify the method.

I told Sullivan about the week’s activities, divulging the bare minimum of details, and certainly excluding any closed-door or semi-closed-door conversations I may or may not have overheard.

“Who are you meeting in Port Douglas?” asked Sullivan, coolly, when I was done. His demeanor had changed, though I could not be sure how. He was more serious. Intent, perhaps.

“I do not know. He had me book a catamaran, which required full names for insurance purposes, under aliases.”

“He told you to make up names?”

“Yes. He said that wealthy, well-known families do that all time to protect themselves.”